


like a serpent sheds his skin

by ilarual (Ilarual)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Modification, Character Study, Fluff, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Post-Canon, in the most literal sense anyway, listen this just sort of happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22080751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilarual/pseuds/ilarual
Summary: Crowley had always kept his appearance on the youngish side, largely for work reasons. Somewhere in that nebulous range of late twenties to early thirties tended to suit the types of projects Hell had liked to assign him. Young, but nottooyoung.Crowley and Aziraphale are packed and ready for their move to the countryside, but before he closes the book on his old life for good, there's one more thing Crowley wants to do.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 95
Kudos: 461





	like a serpent sheds his skin

**Author's Note:**

> idek man this idea has been bopping around the back of my head for weeks and finally solidified into a concrete idea today so I finally actually got it written and here we are. All mistakes are my own because I wrote and posted with no editing whatsoever.

The sky was overcast the day they left London for— well, not _for good_ obviously[1] but certainly for the longest stretch of time since the two of them had made the city a semi-permanent home base several centuries earlier. Crowley had it on good authority that the weather would clear up once they made it outside the city, but at the moment the light in his flat was grey and watery, reflecting a slightly bluish tint on the white walls.

He stood in the room that had housed his houseplants, studying his reflection in the decorative mirror that hung on the wall, the only thing left in the room besides a single yellowed leaf dropped by the peace lily Aziraphale had carried downstairs five minutes earlier. The pallid lighting gave his eyes a washed-out, greenish tint, but for once his eyes weren’t what kept his attention as he examined the face he’d worn for… goodness, it had to be over a thousand years now, at least[2]. He liked this face well enough. The bone structure was fine, though truth be told the lips were a bit too thin and the forehead a bit too wide for his vanity to be fully satisfied.

Crowley had always kept his appearance on the youngish side, largely for work reasons. Somewhere in that nebulous range of late twenties to early thirties tended to suit the types of projects Hell had liked to assign him. Young, but not _too_ young.

However…

“Crowley, dearest, are you coming?” Aziraphale’s voice echoed off the barren walls of the empty flat.

“Yeah, just give me a moment, I’m doing one last sweep!” he called back.

“All right then, I’ll wait for you in the car, shall I?”

Crowley made a noise of assent, and went back to his previous examination of his own face.

It wasn’t quite true, what he’d told Aziraphale. He wasn’t looking for anything they’d overlooked because there was nothing left in the flat. Well, nothing save for one or two pieces of furniture that had come with the place, a single fork Crowley had placed under the bathroom sink to baffle whoever found it, and the mirror on the wall. They had emptied the place out thoroughly, collecting his sparse belongings and packing them up by hand. It was the exact opposite of how Aziraphale had packed up the bookshop: a chain of miracles to box up what books and knick-knacks he wanted to take, and placing wards for protection and preservation on the things that were remaining in London until they could find a suitable place for them.

There was probably some irony in the contrast, Crowley supposed. 

He found himself liking that he was slowing down a little bit, though. With Hell off his back— for now, anyway— he could afford to stop rushing. Take his time with things, do them the _human_ way.

Speaking of which…

He gave himself a bright grin in the mirror, holding it for several seconds. When he relaxed his face, he had a new set of crows’ feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes and faint laughter lines around his mouth. 

For a moment, he second-guessed himself. Were laughter lines an odd choice for a demon? _No_ , he told himself firmly. If he was going to change things up, he wanted his face to reflect the life he was going to lead, not the one he was leaving in the past.

He rubbed his hands across his cheeks, leaving a dusting of almost-imperceptible freckles scattered across the skin there. They were very faint— probably no one but Aziraphale would notice them against his tawny skin— but a summer spent out in their new garden would bring them out, his renewed investment in his favorite hobby showing on his face. 

He thought he liked that idea very well. 

Crowley considered the effect of these subtle changes, and a frown creased his face. It was a start, but something still didn’t feel quite right. Like there was still something missing.

His gaze fell on his hair. He’d been playing with the style a bit lately, experimenting with leaving it a bit more casual. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slicked it back with pomade like he used to before the apocalypse. Without gallons of product keeping it under control, his dark locks had reclaimed some of their natural curl, and he thought the effect suited him. It softened the harsh planes of his angular face somewhat, anyway. He didn’t think he’d ever look as warm and approachable as his round-cheeked angel, not without a much more significant overhaul of his entire corporation, but the hair was nice[3]. The hair was also, however, the problem. 

Fortunately, it was a problem that was easily-solved. 

Crowley raised a delicate hand to his temple and ran slim fingers through his hair, leaving slight streaks of silver through his curls where his hand had passed. He repeated the gesture on the other side.

He tilted his head to each side, evaluating his efforts, and deemed them satisfactory. The face he saw in the mirror still looked like him— or at least the him he’d been accustomed to for the last millennium or so— but felt a little older. A little more _settled_.

Crowley left the mirror hanging on the blank white wall, considering it a gift for the next occupant of the flat. He was half-tempted to loosen the nail that it hung from so that it would fall and shatter if someone slammed the door too hard, but resisted the impulse. 

That whole seven years of bad luck thing was just a superstition anyway.

When he reached the street, he found Aziraphale lingering outside the Bentley, the back seat of which was laden with some dozen houseplants as well as a certain sketch, carefully wrapped in brown canvas, which was probably worth more than the entire block of flats combined.

The angel brightened as Crowley emerged from the building, but his expression changed from fond delight to mild consternation as he noticed the alterations to his appearance.

“Oh goodness! Well that’s different,” he remarked.

Crowley nodded, and opened the passenger door for him. “Yeah, felt like it was time for a change.” Once Aziraphale was settled in, clutching the last of the plants in his lap, Crowley ambled around to the driver’s side and took his place behind the wheel of his beloved car. 

Before he could start the engine, though, Aziraphale asked, “May I ask why?”

He shrugged, tried to be casual. “Surely you’ve heard what your neighbors say about us. Half of Soho calls me ‘Mr. Fell’s young man’ as if I were some kind of— of _sugar baby_.” He grimaced as he said it, as if the words had gone sour in his mouth. “Don’t want that nonsense following us to our new place. ‘M sure there’ll be rumors enough about us as it is without that sort of thing on top of it.”

“How clever of you,” Aziraphale said dryly, in a tone that hinted that he knew perfectly well that Crowley had given him more of an excuse than a reason.

After a moment’s hesitation, during which Crowley tried and failed spectacularly to resent how insightful Aziraphale could be when he bothered to pay attention, he added quietly, “Besides, I wanted to… well, I wanted to match with you a bit. I want us to look like we _belong_ together.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went devastatingly soft and without so much as a thought given to the spider plant he was still clutching in his lap, he leaned over and claimed Crowley’s lips in a demanding kiss.

“You sentimental old serpent,” he said fondly once they separated.

Crowley floundered a bit for words. “ _Hng_. I— yeah.” After millennia of being circumspect about their attachment to each other, Aziraphale’s open affection since Armageddon still tended to overthrow him. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, he started up the Bentley’s engine and pulled away from the kerb.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aziraphale giving him a more thorough once-over as he drove through the Mayfair streets. It took everything Crowley had to keep his focus on navigating the midday London traffic. The angel’s growing smile as he studied the changes Crowley had made to his corporation, which Crowley could see out of the corner of his eye, was highly distracting.

Far more distracting, however, was the way Aziraphale leaned over and whispered, “I love the freckles, darling. They suit you,” and planted another kiss right on his cheek.

It took a hefty infernal (and at least one heavenly) miracle to keep the Bentley in one piece and preserve the traffic light he very nearly plowed into in his discombobulation. 

Flushing scarlet, Crowley said, “Let’s just get on with it, angel. Brand new life ahead of us, eh?”

In the passenger seat, Aziraphale gave a satisfied[4] grin and settled in for the ride. It didn’t occur to Crowley until they had nearly reached Oxfordshire that the angel hadn’t complained about his driving even once.

[1] It was almost certain they would return to the city on a visiting basis within a month, for the gastronomic variety if nothing else.[return to text]

[2] The Arrangement had, among other benefits, drastically reduced Crowley’s rate of discorporations. Being able to request an angel’s assistance on particularly dodgy jobs had proved a major boon in more ways than one.[return to text]

[3] And required far fewer miracles to maintain, besides.[return to text]

[4] Some might say smug.[return to text]


End file.
